


Made of These

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dreams, Emotional Support, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Secret Crush, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 12:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Prompto's sprawled out on the floor of Noctis' apartment the first time he meets Carbuncle, wrapped up in a spare blanket. A game controller's there on the ground beside him, where he left it when he fell asleep mid-battle three hours earlier.And he's having a fantastic dream.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely anon on the kink meme asked for:
> 
> As Prompto grows closer to the Prince of Lucis he begins to notice that Carbuncle keeps showing up in his dreams. Imagine his surprise when the creature from his dreams starts appearing in his photos & saving Noctis in battle. 
> 
> +Noctis lending Prompto his Carbuncle charm because Prom is having nightmares. (nightmares could be triggered by fighting MTs or could be about his time in Nifleheim)  
> ++Carbuncle texting the bros.  
> +++Prompto & Carbuncle cuddling 
> 
> I really want Carbuncle to be friends with the Chocobros.

 

Prompto's sprawled out on the floor of Noctis' apartment the first time he meets Carbuncle, wrapped up in a spare blanket. A game controller's there on the ground beside him, where he left it when he fell asleep mid-battle three hours earlier.  
  
And he's having a fantastic dream.  
  
The table's piled high with baked goods, and the scent in the air promises that Ignis is somewhere nearby, making more. There are streamers hanging from the ceiling, and a metric ton of balloons; someone's decorated for Noct's sixteenth birthday party, complete with a banner that reads "Hope your wishes come true!"   
  
Better than all of that, though: Noct himself is there, smiling free and easy, wearing one of those glittery pointy hats they sell at discount stores. It's got a strap that goes under the chin to keep it on his head.  
  
There's a lot going on. The music's bright and cheery, and Prompto keeps trying to find room for the presents that are pouring in. It's kind of like that puzzle game on his phone, the one where you have to fit the shapes together, only they're all covered in shimmering wrapping paper and elaborate bows.  
  
The point is, he's distracted. It takes him till halfway through the party before he notices.  
  
Prompto's just finished pouring Noct a cup of hot chocolate, and then suddenly there it is, sitting on the table: some weird cat-fox looking thing, all massive ears and downy white fur.  
  
It's a dream, so Prompto rolls with it.  
  
"Thirsty, little guy?" He pours half his own drink into a new mug that just suddenly happens to be in his hand, and he thinks nothing of it, because that's how dreams work. "I don't mind sharing."  
  
The little thing squeaks, and somersaults midair. Hanging there above its head is an emoji Prompto knows all too well: the happy chocobo with little hearts all around it.

 

* * *

 

The second time Prompto meets Carbuncle, he's zonked out in a chair at the crown prince's kitchen table, late night study session long since run into the following day.   
  
He dreams of chocobos that are cotton candy blue and three inches tall - delightfully different from the version on the Wonderful World of Nature special that kick-started his love of all things fluffy and feathered as a kid. He's just trying to feed them greens off of his fork when the cat-fox shows up, amiable and amused, to watch.  
  
The third time Prompto meets Carbuncle, he's curled up in Noct's bed, arms wrapped around a pillow like it's trying to get away. Noctis is a warm, lazy sprawl pressed up along his side.  
  
He dreams he's walking on clouds, high above the Lucian countryside – looks down and is sure he'll fall, right up until the cat-fox hops up to stand beside him. "You've got this!" says the word bubble that pops up beside its head when it squeaks. And the places too thin to hold him before now support his weight just fine.  
  
The creature's there in his dreams every time he sleeps over at Noct's place. It's there when he dreams of green fields or dark rooms full of developing photos; he finds it in shopping malls and the metal book rack under his desk at school. It's disarmingly affectionate – squeaks at him and talks in text and images. It takes to curling up on his shoulders and pressing its damp little nose into his cheek.  
  
Prompto only ever sends it away once.  
  
In this dream, Noct's got him pressed up against the back wall of a game arcade, in the corner behind the pinball machine. Noct's hands are sliding up his shirt, unveiling inch after inch of bare skin; Noct's lips are on his neck.  
  
Prompto sees the cat-fox perched on top of the touch pad for a bubblegum-pink dance machine. It's looking at them, head cocked curiously to one side, and Prompto feels his face start to burn.  
  
"Uh," he says. "Little privacy here, buddy?"  
  
And the cat-fox squeaks at him. Above its head, an emoji of a face pops up, mouth open wide, eyes exaggeratedly shocked. Immediately after, a new one appears to take its place: a winky face.  
  
Prompto's still sputtering, scrambling to explain, when it hops out the arcade window and leaves him to his dream.

 

* * *

 

Imperial soldiers aren't a regular thing on the streets of Insomnia, but these days, they're all over the news.

There they are escorting the High Commander to an official event. There they are standing guard on the edge of the screen during the preliminary negotiations that some are saying might lead to a truce. There they are in the background of every strip of film about the war.

MTs.

Prompto knows what people say about them. He's heard it all: creepy, and empty, and fake. Metal puppets that march to the emperor's drumbeat. Bloodthirsty robots that don't know how to feel. Weapons, no more aware than a gun.

Conventional wisdom claims that words can't hurt, but Prompto knows that's bullshit.

He feels the barcode beneath his wristband like a brand, every time someone mentions a magitek trooper in passing – has to fight down the impulse to pull at the leather encircling his wrist whenever the television flashes a glimpse of them.

Prompto doesn't know the details of his own history, not really. His adoptive parents have always been tight-lipped about it, when they're actually around.

But he knows enough.

He knows someone snatched him out of Niflheim when he was just a baby. He knows the ink etched permanently into his skin is an identification code. He knows that if you were to peel up all that metal casing, every MT the people of Insomnia call creepy would have a barcode just like his.

Prompto's parents are probably the bravest people he's ever known, to let a failed Imperial war experiment into their house.

He dwells on it more and more. With the Empire in the news all the time, he thinks about it nonstop.

It's no great shock when Prompto starts dreaming about it, too. His nights fill up with soulless red eyes – with the stink of battlefields. He dreams of marching off to war, every step he takes under the command of someone else.

But worse than those are the dreams that flood in jumbled and grey, vague but frighteningly specific. A brushed steel table. Searing pain. A white light, directly in his eyes. Metal all around him, closing him in, while Prompto screams and screams and no one comes.

Sometimes, when he wakes up at 2 am, heart hammering in his chest and eyes wet with unshed tears, he thinks that those dreams might be memories.

He starts staying up late – making himself cups of coffee when he wakes at odd hours of the morning. He drinks them sitting, groggy, at the kitchen table in an empty house.

He can see the dark circles under his own eyes in the mirror. He nods off in public, twice in one week. And Noctis, who's way more perceptive than he pretends to be, says, "Everything okay?"

Prompto's in the middle of shoving a cheeseburger in his face in the back booth at the Crow's Nest. He pauses mid-bite, blinks owlish and startled. "Why wouldn't everything be okay?" he asks, mouth full.

Noct snorts. "Chew before you choke to death," he says. And then: "You look tired."

Prompto swallows down his mouthful, with effort. Little actual chewing is involved. "Been having weird dreams, is all."

He doesn't see Noct again for another week – princely duties and Prompto's work schedule don't always mesh. But when they get together again, they hit the arcade and spend an inordinate amount of time at the zombie-shooting game that Prompto loves because he tops all the high score charts.

It's not until they're ready to go their separate ways that Noct catches at Prompto's wrist. "Hey," he says. "Wait. I almost forgot."

And he presses a little charm into Prompto's hand – sleek and cool to the touch, small enough to nestle neatly in his palm.

Prompto's shocked to see that he recognizes it, ridiculously large ears and all. It's the cat-fox that comes to him in all his most pleasant dreams.

"What's this?" Prompto asks, turning it over.

"Carbuncle," says Noct. He flushes – scratches at the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "My dad gave him to me when I was little. Said he'd help with bad dreams. If you want to borrow him for a while…"

Propto stares down at the figure in his hand. He looks up at his best friend, awkward and pretending indifference. And he grins huge and delighted. "Aww, Iggy's gonna be so proud. You finally learned to share your toys!"

Noct ducks away from the arm Prompto slings over his shoulder – pokes him in the side, in the ticklish spot that always makes Prompto yelp with laughter. "I take it back," Noct says. "I don't share with jerks."

But he doesn't take it back, and Prompto places the Carbuncle charm beneath his pillow that night.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn't dream of MTs.

 

* * *

 

They're a week and a half into their road trip across Lucis, and Prompto's barely awake.

It's been a hell of a day – two hunts, three shiploads of Imperial soldiers, a resupply trip to Longwythe, and a flat tire four miles out of town. So now here they are, back in Longwythe, footsore and dead tired. Noct's already sprawled out on the narrow caravan bed, dead asleep. Gladio's draped over the couch, nodding off. Iggy's in the kitchen, inventorying their food supply. How he's even conscious anymore, much less standing, is anyone's guess.

As for Prompto, he's got his sleeping bag spread out on the ground in the walkway of the caravan. He's squirmed down into it and is fighting to stay awake, eyelids heavy, as he pages through the pictures he snapped today on his camera.

There are some good ones in there: Noct with his sword raised above his head, about two seconds from bringing it down on an unsuspecting coeurl. Gladio reading in the back seat, stretched out and content. Ignis at yesterday's campsite, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.

And then there's the one that should have been nothing more than blurred leaves and a swatch of dirt. Prompto knows; that's when he went down in battle and dropped the camera. He can see his own fingers in the foreground, one of them tinted red with blood.

But there, sitting on the ground in front of the blurry leaves, is a small, white cat-fox. Its ears are pricked forward, as though in concern. Its round, luminescent eyes are turned toward the camera – toward the place where Prompto just fell. It's making to rise, haunches tensed.

Prompto blinks down at it for a long time, not quite believing it's there. He's half convinced he's already drifted off to sleep, but when he sits up, the sound of Ignis in the kitchen is steady and reassuring: the soft shift of dry rice as he makes room for it in his pack.

"Hey, Iggy?" says Prompto, uncertain.

"Yes?" comes the reply. It's pitched low, out of consideration for the two who are sleeping already.

Prompto stands up, letting the sleeping bag pool on the floor. He turns the camera off, and then turns it back on again. He flips to the photo of the blurred leaves and finds Carbuncle there, still staring out at him.

Frowning, Prompto pads into the kitchen. He's barefoot, in nothing but his sleep shorts and a torn old t-shirt; his hair, still drying from the shower, is probably sticking up in ridiculous clumps.

He says, "Hey, uh. You notice anything weird on the hunts today?"

Ignis fixes him with a level look. "Apart from a frog with a twenty-five foot tongue, I take it," he returns, tone dry enough to drain Alstor Slough.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Besides that."

He holds out the camera, and Ignis takes it – peers down at the screen with pursed lips. "Intriguing."

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Right? I mean, I didn't see it while we were actually fighting, but there it is, right in the middle of battle. You'd think if it was an animal, it'd run away from all the noise."

"It's hardly just an animal," Ignis says, and lifts his eyes from the screen to regard Prompto with great consideration. "The Carbuncle is a protective spirit. It grants pleasant dreams and watches over those it deems worthy. Its presence at important points in Lucian history has been reported periodically since the reign of The Clever."

Prompto's not sure what to say to that. His brow furrows as he mulls the new information over. "And it's following us around?"

"So it would seem." One elegant gloved hand offers the camera back up, and Prompto takes it, cautiously.

"Huh," says Prompto. "Must be here for Noct."

But even as he says it, Prompto's thoughts stray back to earlier this afternoon. He remembers white-hot agony from a coeurl's claws – blood, hot and slick, all down his side. He remembers going down to one knee and trying to push himself up, then going down again, harder, the world greying out at the edges. He remembers the camera sliding from numb fingers, the flash as it hit the ground.

Then came the rush of healing magic shivering through him, refreshing as the air on a winter morning. When he turned to thank Noct for the potion, he found that his best friend was halfway across the battlefield, knee deep in a pack of voreteeth.

Prompto stares down at the screen of his camera, and he wonders.

 

* * *

 

Prompto's got the hotel room in Lestallum to himself right now, and it's kind of a novelty. Iggy and Gladio are out at the market, picking up supplies. Noct's in the bathroom, taking a shower; the water's a distant rush in his ears.

So Prompto's got time to fight a battle in King's Knight, and to try out his new filter, and to just loll around on the bed. He's missed having a bed.

When his phone buzzes at him, he reaches for it idly – expects that it's Iggy, asking whether he needs anything while they're out.

It's not. It's an unidentified number. All the text contains is an emoji: a happy chocobo, surrounded by hearts.

Prompto frowns down at it. He didn't exactly have a thrilling social life before – his friends numbered all of one, until Iggy and Gladio got stuck with him by association – and he can't think of anyone who would have his number but no contact information in his cell. Even less so, now that Insomnia's on lockdown under Imperial rule, most of the populace wiped out in the initial attack.

Still, he's got time to kill. And it'd suck if the person on the other end needed something and never found out they got the wrong number. So Prompto texts back: _whos this?_

His phone buzzes at him: _Guess.  :)_

Prompto thinks about it for a minute.

His adoptive parents have never used an emoji in their lives. They're not the sort to dance around a point, almost certainly would have started any message with a dry account of their current status and location, but despite that, he feels a sudden, almost-too-sharp spike of hope that it's them. Maybe they made it out of Insomnia, after all. Maybe they've scrounged up a new phone somewhere and have been trying to reach him this whole time.

Prompto taps in: _mom? dad?_

There's a pause before the reply comes. _Sorry. Not them :(_

Right. Of course it isn't. Prompto closes his eyes for just an instant – tries to ignore the way his throat's grown tight. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of one hand, and he puts his head down on the hotel comforter.

It takes him a couple of minutes before he's able to try again.

At last he taps in: _iris?_

He doesn't know Gladio's little sister very well, but she seems like the kind of kid to use emojis all over the place. She might even have gotten his number from Gladio, though Prompto can't for the life of him imagine why she might be texting.

 _Wrong_ , says his mystery friend.

In the bathroom, the shower shuts off. Prompto can hear, faintly, the sound of wet footsteps and the shuffle of fabric as Noct finds a towel.

Prompto considers again. He taps out: _sorry buddy._ _think you’ve got the wrong number_.

His phone buzzes twice, in rapid succession.

_Nope._

_Hi Prompto hi. :)_

Prompto racks his brain for who it might be. Monica? The content seems too childish. Cor? Even the thought has him snorting laughter. Talcott? More likely, but he's pretty sure the kid doesn't have a phone.

Ardyn?

That's… worth considering. He's not sure how the man would have gotten his number, but he's a recent acquaintance. He seems friendly enough, and Prompto wouldn't put it past him to pack his messages with smiley faces, just for the hell of it.

His phone buzzes again, before he can tap in this newest guess.

 _Ew, no_ , the text reads. _Not him._

Prompto feels his mouth fall open. His brow furrows with confusion. How the hell – did he type that, and then send it, and then somehow delete it and forget he'd sent it?

The bathroom door clicks open while Prompto's staring at the screen of his phone. He looks up – starts to say, "Hey, Noct. You know whose phone number this is?"

But he doesn't get any further than Noct's name, because the sight stops him cold.

Noct's in nothing but the too-small hotel towel, holding it up with one hand. It's riding low on his hips, starting to slip down, and his skin is pale and smooth and still wet from the shower.

"Hey," says Noct. "Sorry. Forgot my clothes."

Prompto swallows, hard. He can feel himself blushing, a wave of heat that's swarming his face like a wildfire. He realizes he's staring – manages, with great difficulty, to jerk his eyes away.

"Uh," he manages, intelligently. "No problem. Check your bag, dude."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he kicks himself for being ten kinds of idiot. Where else would Noct's clothes be, besides his bag?

Prompto's phone buzzes, then buzzes again. He ignores it, in favor of staring determinedly at the hotel comforter and _not_ at his best friend's near-naked body.

He's aware, peripherally, of Noct bending down to fish out his t-shirt and waders – tries very hard not to be aware of how much thigh the actual bending process exposes.

It seems like Noct takes decades to find himself some clothes. By the time he's back in the bathroom, door closed behind him, Prompto's sure his heart's about to explode in his chest. His face feels like a campfire, searing hot to the touch.

Prompto's phone buzzes again.

Reluctantly, he glances away from the bathroom door and down to the screen.

The first message says _Ooooooo_ with a kissy emoji.

The second says: _That was a hint, you should take it_. Three more kissy faces follow.

He's just starting to feel the first spike of alarm – this has got to be someone who can see into their room, and that induces a horror-movie-creepy-stalker twist of cold terror – when he reads the third message.

It says: _He has dreams like your arcade dream sometimes. You don't have to worry you know._

Prompto gapes down at the phone like a fish Noct's just landed. He feels just as out of place, like he's lost in the great outdoor world with no water to breathe. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

He's never told anybody about that dream – never even hinted.

Prompto starts to tap a name. He stops himself, halfway, and deletes it. That's just silly.

A text arrives: _Not so silly._

Prompto stares down at it for a good thirty seconds before he taps the name in again. He hits send.

And he gets back a whole screen full of confetti and smiling faces.

 

* * *

 

It's the middle of the following week, and Prompto's trying very hard not to hyperventilate. It's the best chance he's ever going to get. Iggy and Gladio are on their way back to Wiz's Chocobo post by now to renew their lease on the birds, and here are he and Noct, at the haven manning the camping gear.

You got this, Prompto tells himself. You'll be fine.

His phone buzzes, and a picture pops up. It's Carbuncle's face in close-up, from the shot he took with the little creature posed against a background of blurred shrubbery.

The text reads: _Go go you can do it._

Prompto bites at his lip. "You'd better be right about this," he mutters.

The phone buzzes again: _I'm always right. :)_

So Prompto takes a deep breath. He runs his hand through his hair, checking to make sure everything's in place. He chews a stick of gum, from a pack purchased at Cauthess for this very purpose. Then he spits it out into the paper wrapper, folds it up, and sticks it in the trash bag Iggy always insists they haul around.

He clears his throat. He practices an easy smile.

"You can do this," Prompto tells himself, uncertainly.

"Do what?"

Prompto yelps – jumps – turns so fast he almost falls over. It's Noct, of course, one eyebrow raised in an expression that's amused and fond both at once.

"I, uh," says Prompto, words fleeing him in his moment of need. "You, uh. That is."

Noct snorts a laugh. "What the hell, Prom? I haven't seen you this worked up since you had to give that monologue on stage back in high school."

Prompto takes a deep gulp of air. He steps forward, slow and deliberate. He sets his hands on Noct's shoulders, ignoring the surprise creeping into his best friend's face and trying not to think about whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Then he leans up and kisses Noct, square on the mouth.

It's not a storybook kiss, slow and romantic. It's simple and closed-mouth, because Prompto has absolutely zero clue what he's doing.

When he pulls back, Noct's looking at him, kind of dazed.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. Prompto keeps staring, waiting for – something. Some kind of response. His stomach's all twisted up in knots, the butterflies attempting a sudden, violent retreat in the face of such a hostile environment.

This is a mistake. He's going to puke, or pass out, or – or something even more embarrassing. Possibly spontaneously combust, because his face has reached the approximate temperature of the sun.

"You know what," Prompto manages, voice reedy and thin. "Forget – forget that happened. Okay? I'm gonna just –"

He's not sure what he's going to do. Swim to the bottom of a lake and start a colony there, maybe, so that the outside world never has to see his awkward attempt at romance again. He's just starting to turn away when Noct sets a hand on his shoulder.

Prompto turns back, half-dreading the expression he'll find, and Noct pulls him in for another kiss, with so much enthusiasm that their teeth clink together. It's clumsy and stilted; Noct's not any more experienced than he is.

But when they finally pull apart, Prompto feels like he's soaring somewhere high above the ground, turning cartwheels up in the air with the birdbeasts.

 

* * *

 

Prompto dreams of the ocean, vast and lovely, the surface of the water as smooth as glass. It stretches away into the distance, dawn a promise of warmth on the horizon.

The whimsical silhouette of Angelgard is a hazy shape where the sea meets the sky. Nearer at hand, a gull floats on the waves, fat and content in the early light.

Noct's standing on the dock, the soft whir of his reel a pleasant background noise against the lapping of water. Prompto sits beside him, close enough to touch; his feet are bare, and he kicks them in the chill of the waves. He can taste the ocean air in his lungs, the salt spray on his lips.

It's a pleasant dream, soft and idle. It's nothing more complicated than a series of moments, precious unhurried time spent with someone he cares for.

When Prompto wakes, it's in the hours immediately before dawn; he can tell, because the light filtering in through the fabric of the tent is grey and wan. He's curled on his side in his sleeping bag, and he finds that during the night, he's shifted closer to Noct.

Noct's face is a pale oval bare inches from his own, long lashes brushing against the skin of his cheek.

Looking at him like this, peaceful and still, Prompto is struck with a surge of affection, so fierce and sudden that he feels it might drown him.

Prompto closes his eyes. He smiles, so hard his cheeks ache, and reaches out to take Noct's hand in his own.

Instead, he finds something warm and plush, like the fur of a kitten's belly. Prompto blinks his eyes open again, still only half-awake. He's not entirely surprised to see that Carbuncle is there, curled up in the space between them. Prompto's fingers search out a silky ear, and he scritches delicately at its base.

Carbuncle's eyes slit closed. The fluffy white head nuzzles into his palm.

Prompto leaves his hand there, and he uses the other one to twine his fingers in with Noct's.

When he drifts off again, just moments later, the world of dreams swings its door wide open.


End file.
